


Today the World will End

by TheTacticianAlchemist



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: AU, Chrobin Week, Chrobin Week 2016, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Plegia controls the entire continent, Slaves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-08-19 02:58:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8186803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTacticianAlchemist/pseuds/TheTacticianAlchemist
Summary: After the Takeover, Plegia dominated the entire continent. The Ylissean and Feroxi kingdoms were nothing more than territories, and their soldiers killed, and families sold into slavery. To some slaves, Ylisse and Regna Ferox seemed only like hazy dreams. To some slaves, like Chrom, they could barely remember anything at all.
And it was all thanks to Morgana, the tactician and queen of the desert country. A former Ylissean herself.
[Written for Chrobin Week 2016. Multichaptered, one for every day of the week.....hopefully.]





	1. Coming-of-Age

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone! Glad to be back for another year of Chrobin! Now, to get a few things out of the way...
> 
> 1) I have the first few chapters written (after rewriting a LOT), but not all of it. This is due to being abroad currently; Japan is a great place, and I'm busy all the time, it seems like. So I'm not entirely sure if I'll be able to update this consistently throughout Chrobin Week. I of course plan on finishing it, but it might take a little while. (This will be on the front of my mind when I write, other than for commissions.)
> 
> 2) I've gone through several drafts for this story plot-wise; and being only seven-chapters, this is actually a big deal for me. I've never tried to do a "short" story before, other than one-shots. Please don't hesitate to point out things that seem odd, be it in writing or plot points. I'm trying to make this sort of like...seven snapshots of Chrom's and Robin's lives in this AU, and not a full-blown story like I usually go for. So yay for new things!
> 
> 3) Special thanks to @ingrimasname on tumblr (Ellisama on here--go check out her work!) for being there when I really needed another person to talk to, and not just another writer. You're great!
> 
> Now, with that out of the way... I hope you enjoy.

The Falchion glimmers in Chrom’s hands.

He lowers his head, touching his forehead to the pommel. He closes his eyes.

Today. Today the world will end.

Someone quietly calls his name, and he lifts his head. Gaius kneels by the window, checking the main road of Plegia’s capital.

“’Bout time to get in position,” he says, putting a new lollipop in his mouth as he grabs his bow. He nods his head. “I’ve got your back from up here, and the others will subdue the guards in the crowd.”

Chrom stands and slides Falchion back into his belt. His left hand traces over his right shoulder, where his skin is blotched by an old burn. “The rest is up to me, then.” _Just as Robin planned_.

Gaius gives a lazy salute. “See ya when this is all over.”

_All over_ , Chrom muses as he nods and turns, his cape fluttering in the stale air. He dons a brown hood over his body and wonders if he’ll be the same person when this is _all over_.

He descends the stairs, passing by Kellam, guarding the inside. Chrom pats the man’s armored shoulder, and Kellam gives a start of surprise, unprepared for anyone to notice him. Chrom gives him a solemn nod and a word of thanks, and then Chrom leaves.

The sides of the main street are filled with people. Most mutter amongst themselves, mothers holding children close under the watch of the royal guards.

Chrom makes his way toward the front of the crowd, keeping his head down. The further away from the lance-wielding guard he gets, the more people mutter about the Hierophant’s birthday and being forced to celebrate. He overhears one man grumble _I wish this were the last one we had hold for that bitch_ to which he is promptly shushed by his wife.

_Robin was right,_ he thinks with a heavy heart, despite the fact that he’s been in the capital for almost a week now and has already heard these complaints, and many, many more; not just from the Plegians, but from people all over the land. _The Hierophant reigns over everyone in the continent, and even the Plegians can’t stand it anymore._

But then again, were they ever able to stand it, when their poorest are also made to grovel in the dirt for food, to become slaves just for shelter? In that regard, many Plegians had never been different from any Ylissean or Feroxi after the Takeover had ended.

When he comes to the front of the crowd, he glances up the street. An incredibly large purple and gold float moves down the road by way of magic; Chrom can only imagine how much energy such a spell is taking from the royal mages. Flaunting in such a way is an idiotic move in terms of security. There aren’t even guards other than the Hierophant’s two retainers on the float.

His eyes settle on the Hierophant as the float comes closer. He steels himself, and then lowers his hood.

His ears catch the slight sounds of a scuffle; the nearest guard has been silenced. He waits a few moments more, and then steps out into the street and pulls off the brown cloak, revealing his blue and white clothes, the legendary sword at his hip.

The crowd mutters, more loudly now, and the float halts. The Hierophant stands, purple and gold cloak billowing in the wind. The white-haired mage stands, tome in hand, but an arrow flies out and strikes him in the arm; he loses his balance and falls off the edge, onto the ground.

Another arrow whizzes through the air, and a blast of magic from the dark-haired retainer sends the projectile spinning. The Hierophant pulls out a tome as more arrows shoot out from several directions at once; for a moment, the two can fend them off—and then, faster than Chrom can comprehend, the retainer flings herself in front of her master, and an arrow plunges into her chest.

Robin freezes as Tharja collapses, and Chrom can feel the steel he placed around his heart start to cave in. Tharja’s death was not planned.

Chrom unsheathes Falchion regardless and walks forward toward the front of the float, where there are grand steps leading up to Robin’s seat. Miriel’s spell warms Chrom’s throat, and his voice becomes magnified.

“Do not panic, people of Plegia,” he says, but his eyes remain upon Robin. Her skin is pale, and the sunlight reflects the unshed tears in her eyes as she gazes at Tharja’s body. He wants to hold her tight and reassure her, but what does is continue walking, and what he says is this: “I am Chrom, Prince of Ylisse and eldest of the remaining heirs to the throne. I have come to right the wrongs that the Hierophant-Queen has committed to the people of the continent.”

Chrom ascends the stairs, and stares right into Robin’s eyes. He points Falchion toward her. “What do you have to say for yourself, Hierophant-Queen?”

Rage flashes in Robin’s eyes, and she lashes out, electricity sparking from her hand. “Impudent fool!”

Chrom swings his sword, cleaving the electricity before it can hit him. She sends out another bolt, and he ducks, nearly stumbling over Tharja’s body. Robin moves erratically, easily showing her weaknesses, and he slices off her left hand, the one holding her tome.

She screams, and he pulls back Falchion before driving it into her stomach.

Robin slumps against him, weak but not dead yet. Her only hand grips his arm, a tighter hold than anything he’s felt before.

“I love you,” she whispers.

“I love you,” he says, and the magic is gone from his voice, leaving him quiet and hoarse. He allows himself just a second to take in her weight, her warmth, her scent. “I would give you the world if I could. I would give up on the world for you if I could.”

“You…did both.” He can hear the smile in her voice. “Thank you, Chrom. My mother…thanks you too, I… I know it. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Robin,” Chrom whispers, before pulling Falchion from her body.

She falls.

And today is the day the world begins anew.


	2. Branded and Marked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a scene that could be interpreted as child abuse; it is not meant to be written that way, but I thought it better to be safe than sorry about a trigger warning. The character who carries it out isn't meant to be fully sane, not that it excuses the matter.
> 
> Apologies for the short chapter, but the next ones will be longer.

The Mark of Grima was a purely hereditary trait, a magical brand brought about through blood magic. Morgana knew that. She also knew that Grima—whether or not it had once been real—was never going to return. She didn’t believe that either Grima nor Naga would appear from nowhere and make the world a better place. Such a thing was illogical.

Yet, when she held Robin in her arms for the first time and saw the six-eyed purple mark on the back of her hand, she was speechless. And she was terrified.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, holding her newborn close. “I never wanted to bring you into this.” 

* * *

 

He had underestimated the Grimleal.

The Exalt of Ylisse stood in the castle war room, his bloodshot eyes scanning over and over the maps and troop details. But there was no denying the fact of the matter: Plegia’s troops were razing the land as they marched eastward, killing insurgents and capturing villagers and weakened soldiers. Each day, the Plegian line inched closer and closer to Ylisstol. There were rumors that the tactician behind Plegia’s sudden rise was the consort to the Hierophant, that she was of Ylissean origins, but there was no way to confirm that as of now. The only certainty that they had was that she was leading the army, and she was so heavily guarded that chances of assassination were slim to none.

Never mind that he had been the one who raised the flag of war in the first place.

The Exalt would not ever give up against the tide of the Grimleal. He would remain in Ylisstol until his last breath, fighting to keep the spirit of his people alive. Retreating to the eastern palace would be too cowardly; he would not subject the people of Ylisse to such a thing. He would die, but there were others who would rise to protect his kingdom—protect his _continent_ —from the twisted ideals of those who worshipped the Death Dragon.

Still, his children were too young; only Emmeryn’s name had been announced to the kingdom properly, and Chrom could not wield a sword yet. Lissa was newly born, and with no Brand upon her skin, only she would be safe from the execution that would surely befall them as members of the royal family, were they to be captured—a very likely occurrence.

The thought gave the Exalt pause.

The fall of the Grimleal would not come during his lifetime, and at the rate the Plegians were claiming territory, it would be a miracle were there to be any strongholds left during a time when Chrom would be able to lead armies. Yet still, the Exalt’s mind grasped onto a wild hope, of his children remaining hidden in plain sight until the time was ripe.

He informed only Frederick and Phila of his plans, being the retainers of his oldest children. Frederick turned pale, and Phila raised a voice against him—but he ignored them and gave them orders to disguise themselves and prepare to leave come midnight.

Emmeryn was the pure reflection of the Exalt’s late wife, only young. She was calm and regal as the crown princess should be, her mind filled with notions of peace that he thought could only belong to Naga’s chosen—as frustrating as they could be in times such as these. She was beautiful and strong but sorely misguided in her thoughts, no matter how much he warned her of the Grimleal’s terror and their wicked warlocks and witches.

He used Falchion to cut her hair short, and heated the blade in the fireplace in the royal chambers. She closed her eyes and did not cry out when he pressed the sword to her forehead to burn her skin, but he pretended not to see her tears, and he turned away when she fell due to the pain, Phila hurrying to her aid with a stave and medical supplies.

Chrom was a strong little boy, too young to really comprehend war outside of games with mere fictional consequences. But he was opinionated, reckless, quick to anger, and so, so kind. He watched with wide eyes and frozen limbs, and the Exalt wished he could have seen his son grow up to become a courageous wielder of Falchion, but he doubted Chrom would ever be able to hold the sacred pommel in his hand now.

Emmeryn gathered herself together, her forehead freshly bandaged. She took Chrom in her arms and smoothed back his hair, whispering words of encouragement to him. She pulled up his sleeve, held his arm steady, and Chrom began to cry. 

* * *

 

Through the haze of sleep, he felt his shoulder sting.

“There are better places to take a nap than on the ground, you know.”

Chrom opened one eye and squinted. The sun had moved just enough to reach through the branches of the only tree in the outer courtyard to put his face in the light.

The girl above him giggled and covered her mouth. The back of her hand was branded with the six-eyed dragon. The Mark of Grima.


	3. Dancing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely satisfied with this but it's mostly setup so *shrug*

“Will you help me practice my dancing?”

Chrom looked up from his writing practice, more old parchments from Robin’s own private lessons. He frowned at her. “Dancing?”

The sat in an alcove, a small cleft hidden in one of the walls in the outer section of Castle Plegia. Robin had shown him the spot years ago when they first met, and as they had grown, they’d had to widen the opening in the wall to reach the area. Robin hid the spot from sight and sound with a spell, and also with one of the hallway tapestries. They filled the cleft with a tiny table, and the floor was often scattered with pencil nubs and scraps of paper scribbled on with Chrom’s chicken-scratch handwriting (which Robin couldn’t correct no matter how hard she tried).

Chrom gestured to their cramped hideaway. “This isn’t exactly the best place for dancing.”

Robin shook her head, her silvery hair glistening in the candlelight. “Not here, of course. Somewhere else, like the ballroom.”

“Robin,” Chrom said, putting his writing practice down to look at her seriously. “I trust you, and we’ve gone around the castle more times than I can count, but we’ve never actually spent _time_ anywhere but here.”

“We can do it,” she said. “I know the guard rotation.”

“We could get caught.”

Robin rolled her eyes. “Would I let you get caught?” When he shook his head and looked away, her voice grew lighthearted. “Maybe you’re just too shy to dance with me?”

“I am not!” he snapped, but he was blushing. 

* * *

 

Chrom’s duties the next morning took his mind off of Robin’s request—he was busy fetching water from the well, bringing in foods bought in the market, and other manual labor. He’d only been assigned to the job a few months ago when he turned twelve; it had been difficult the first few weeks, but now, he could feel his body becoming used to the weight, becoming stronger.

He made his way to their meeting spot, being careful as always about the guard rotation and anyone else who might come along—when someone took his hand, nearly causing him to yell in shock.

“Shh,” Robin whispered, and then pulled him down another hall.

Chrom’s body immediately heated up; he wanted to pull away his hand, which suddenly felt sweaty, but she held him too tightly.

She led him through hallways, upstairs, all the while avoiding the guards as they came deeper into the castle. Chrom felt his hands start to tremble.

“Scared of getting caught?” she whispered, not looking back. “Or of dancing?”

“Getting caught,” he lied immediately.

Finally, they came to a set of doors, and Robin cracked them open and poked her head though. Then, she opened the door just enough for the both of them, and led the way through before closing it behind them.

The ballroom’s floor was of dark marble; the walls were purple and gold, with similar tapestries. When they had first come, Robin explained that it was styled in a manner similar to Ylissean architecture, overrun with Plegian colors and incense that filled the air even when they weren’t burning. Chrom hated the room, and he was sure Robin knew that—but he was also willing to put up with it for her. He was sure she knew that, too.

Robin whispered a spell at the door, and then tugged Chrom further into the room. “I’ll have to do the leading at first, but it shouldn’t be too hard to follow.”

His cheeks grew hot when Robin put her hand at his waist, keeping her right hand clasped with his left. She nodded to him and gave him small instructions. She kept the time—“one, two, three, one, two, three”—and lead him in small steps that curved them around the empty room. Chrom stumbled at first, staring at his feet.

“Look at me,” she said, and when he did, he stumbled.

“No, no.” She started the dance once again, staring at him hard so he won’t look away. “You have to follow me, not yourself. Just keep your eyes on me.”

And so he did. She started to count again, and he became lost in her voice, as simple as her words were, and found himself unable to look away from her dark eyes.

He blinked, and he thought of music, a large room, and innumerable people dancing to the same illusionary beat. He can’t tell if it’s a memory or a figment of his imagination. It can’t be anything but the latter.

“What kind of dance is this?” Chrom asked, his voice more of a mumble than anything.

Robin slowed to a stop. For once, she couldn’t meet his eyes. “…It’s actually an Ylissean waltz.”

“Why…?” He paused, and then looked away. “Oh.”

Robin bit her lip. “Don’t get me the wrong way, Chrom, please.”

He pulled away from her. He didn’t remember Ylisse, but he didn’t have to, not when Emm would tell him stories of their old homeland so wistfully that he caught sight of her tears. “The anniversary celebration.”

He shook his head, and Robin’s voice became desperate. “Chrom, I know what you must be thinking. And I won’t—I can’t blame you. The nobles…the nobles are mocking Ylisse with this dance, yes, but _I’m_ not. My mother isn’t either—she’s the one who’s been teaching me the steps.”

Chrom turned his head to look at her. His hands started to shake. “I don’t get it.”

“What?”

“You say you don’t want to make fun of the reason why I’m a slave here. That your mother—who’s Ylissean herself—taught you the steps. And then you bring me _here_?” He extended his arms toward the walls of the ballroom. “You try to teach me a dance that I should be learning from my parents?!”

She pulled back her hands to her side. She seemed too small, especially in her overlarge robes, the purple and gold colors that marked her as the second daughter. “I wanted to get it right,” she said quietly. “And teach you _because_ your parents aren’t here. I just wanted to make _my_ dancing mean something for Ylisse, and not for Plegia. I thought it would make you happy, to learn something from your home.”

Her words made him pause, and Chrom lowered his arms, but he was biting his lip, and his blood felt hot.

“I’m sorry,” Robin said. She tugged at her sleeves. “Let’s just go, okay? We don’t have to do this ever again.”

Chrom nodded, his jaw tight. “Just…I need to…”

“…I know,” she said, and he wondered how she could know something about him that even he didn’t. 

* * *

 

Chrom didn’t go to see Robin for several days. When his duties were done, he would return early to the small underground residence he shared with his sisters. Lissa was too young to be given large tasks, and usually spent her time with the other children in the residential area; Chrom played with them as well for those few days, trying to keep his mind off of Robin.

It didn’t really work.

When night fell, he would stare at the candle Emm left burning. She knew a bit of magic, and used a weaker spell to keep the flame alive without using up too much of the wax. Robin did the same thing with the candle they kept in their cleft in the wall.

On the third night as he looked at the flame, he thought, _I think I understand what she meant._

Robin’s reasoning didn’t make light of his situation. They were trying to make the best of it, for him, even with so much opposition.

He closed his eyes with the resolve that he would apologize to her the next day. 

* * *

 

Emm always woke up before him and Lissa. It wasn’t that Chrom was prone to sleeping late—that was Lissa’s specialty—but more that Emm always wanted to make them breakfast, and to hear any gossip from the neighbors that might affect them. That latter habit helped them avoid the sterner stewards, and from accepting extra work that might be too dangerous.

He wasn’t expecting Emm to sit beside him at the table and lean close to him, her eyes sad and concerned and filled with a terrifying level of understanding.

“Lady Morgana has passed away,” she whispered. 

* * *

 

The official story was that Lady Morgana had died suddenly of natural causes—an aneurysm. Chrom had no way of knowing if this was true.

He waited in their hideaway for hours, working on his writing and reading practice to pass the time. He kept glancing at the entrance, straining his ears to hear her telltale footsteps. But days of this passed, and the funeral came.

And finally, Robin appeared.

She stood in the entrance, dressed in black and gold and purple. She stood shakily, her skin pale and her body seeming even smaller than ever. Her eyes were wet and red-rimmed.

But then, her hands balled into fists, and her dark eyes sparked.

“Chrom,” she said. “Things are about to change. Do you trust me?”

He sat there on the floor, staring up at her, and in this moment he wasn’t sure what he had thought would happen when he saw her. But he could not look away from her, as if something otherworldly connected him to her across time and space and thought.

He couldn’t lie to her.

“Yes.”


	4. Myth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a little late, and I'm afraid it's all I have written up to now. My apologies. I don't have much time to write. (At least I got this far through chrobin week!)

Chrom had never held a sword in his life.

The instructor walked around the ring, passing out the wooden training swords to the trainees—all young, all slaves, but a mix of not just Ylisseans and Feroxi, but lowborn Plegians. The instructor was Feroxi, a man around his twenties with dark skin and a prematurely balding head. He held himself like a leader, but when he walked, it was with a heavy limp.

“All right, boys,” he said, and his voice sounded too rough for someone his age. “The name’s Basilio. Come to me if you have any problems. They’d better not be about pickin’ fights outside of the ring. There are enough of us spillin’ blood in there already.”

Something sparked in Chrom’s mind—something he couldn’t place. He wondered if maybe he had heard Basilio’s name before, but he had never met such a person. Perhaps the Feroxi slaves in Castle Plegia had said something about it, like it was a common name, or something from a legend.

“I’m better with an axe, but we’ll start you off with the basics—sword fighting.” Basilio swung his own wooden sword around his fingers so that the thick blade almost seemed to be spinning about on its own just beside his palm. “I’ll say it here now, and I’ll say it again however many times I need to—no one is to land a killing blow unless you’re certain your opponent is trying to kill you. Killing isn’t necessary in this arena, and I’d sure as hell like to keep it that way—as much as I can.” 

* * *

 

Chrom’s first night in the arena’s barracks was terrifying.

Basilio stayed with the new trainees, and a good number of the full-fledged gladiators assured them that outside of the arena, it was unlikely that someone would be harmed. They were all slaves anyway, stuck in the same sinking boat, destined to die from bleeding out or from sickness due to an infected wound.

Basilio, however, didn’t hide the fact that a few gladiators were particularly ruthless, and that the more veteran gladiators didn’t hesitate to kill people like them in the arena to keep the peace.

The trainees huddled together that night, whispering to each other to try to fend off the silence. They all had similar stories: Slaves from around the capital, and even from some of the outlying towns, all lured by the promise that their families would be given extra rations. One boy was crying softly because his family had decided this fate for him, while the majority of the others were more solemn, having discussed the decision beforehand.

A boy turned to Chrom. “Why are you here?”

He thought about how he slipped out of his home without a word to Emm and Lissa, only a longing glance and a whisper that he would be back. He thought about Robin, and he wondered if he was a fool for trusting her, for trusting her even now.

“I made a promise to someone.” 

* * *

 

Fights in the arena didn’t occur every day. They happened on the resting days of the week, and on holidays. Chrom didn’t see his first fight until four days after he arrived.

As slaves, they had to watch from below, behind the grates that kept the gladiators from leaving the ring. Basilio took them there, and made sure they didn’t look away.

The fighters were two grown men—one seemingly in his twenties, and the other with a heavy amount of lines forming on his forehead, suggesting late forties. The first stood ramrod straight, his back maintaining the proper position even when he readied his lance. The other was far more laid back, lazily swinging his sword as he prepared for the battle, a confident gleam in his eyes. They shared words that Chrom couldn’t hear, but they seemed to be friendly enough.

And then they began.

It was too fast for Chrom to comprehend. The older would leap forward and slash, while the lance-wielder would easily parry the blow; when the younger jabbed forward, the other ducked and rolled away. Chrom had never seen anything like it before.

The battle ended with the older man being grazed in the shoulder, after what Chrom had thought to be a long battle—Basilio scoffed and said the real thing could last seconds or hours, that this had been a show.

The loser—a man named Gregor—left the battlefield through the east gate, where a small infirmary was set up under the stadium. The victor stood outside for a few moments longer to accept the cheers and applause from the audience, although his face remained stoic.

“All right, everyone,” Basilio barked as the gladiator moved to put his spear on the weapons rack. “Get out of the way, Frederick’s comin’.”

Chrom was slow—he stared at the victor for as long as he could before he moved to the side—and then the man’s eyes were on him. And then they widened.

Frederick grabbed his shoulders. “Mi—Chrom, Chrom—is that you?”

Chrom stared up at him. “…Yes?”

“Oh, gods,” Frederick said, and fell to his knees and pulled him close. Chrom stayed frozen, arms held at awkward angles, and his gaze met Basilio’s.

The trainer smiled, albeit sadly. “Family?”

“Y-yes,” Frederick said with a cough, pulling away to look Chrom in the eyes again. “My…my elder brother’s son.”

The other trainees were watching, and Chrom felt his skin burn. “I…don’t remember you.”

Frederick’s eyes became wide, and he hurriedly looked away and coughed. His jaw tightened.

He turned to Basilio. “I need to talk to him.”

Basilio shrugged. “Up to him.”

They both looked to Chrom. He blinked, his mind still reeling to catch up with the situation. He looked to Frederick to find that the man was watching him.

Chrom nodded, if reluctantly. 

* * *

 

“Chrom…do you remember anything?”

Frederick had taken him to his private room—he had been around so long as a gladiator that he was able to have his own space, albeit small.

Chrom sat on the bed. He glanced at Frederick—who was looking at him nervously, and with pity—and he looked down at his lap. “Not much at all. I think I remember being captured. It was in a fire, where I got this.” He patted his shoulder, where his short sleeve partially covered his burn.

Frederick let out a breath, and he seemed to shrink. “…Did Emmeryn not tell you?”

Chrom frowned. “Do you mean Emm? Mellissa?”

“…Her real name is Emmeryn,” Frederick said slowly. He shook his head. “Though we were trying to hide her name…”

“I…don’t really understand,” Chrom said. “Emm talked only a little about our parents, and…and maybe you, and…Aunt Phila?” His head hurt trying to recall the memories—he liked knowing more about Ylisse and their life before servitude, but he always saw how downcast Emm would get about it, and he didn’t often ask. “But she said our parents died, and so did Aunt Phila.”

Frederick nodded. “Yes, they did. Your parents…” Frederick paused, and then stood up to move close to the door. He listened intently for a few moments, and then nodded to himself before returning to Chrom’s side.

The man took a breath. “Emm was protecting you, it seems. There are a lot of things you don’t know.” 

* * *

 

None of it seemed real.

Chrom was in a daze. Sleep was hard to come by for a while, and when it did come, his dreams were consumed by the knowledge he had gained.

 _He stood by in his dreams, only watching. He saw his father raise a gleaming sword toward a boy. The boy screamed, and Chrom’s shoulder_ burned _._

_He grabbed at it, hissing, but he could only watch as the scene changed—the boy was running through the dark of night, his face outlined by the blaze of torches, of houses burning as green, yellow, blue, and purple spells whizzed about. The light lit up Emm as she clutched the infant Lissa, and Frederick deflected a spell with the haft of his spear. Then, Phila was hit squarely in the chest with magic._

_It changed again._

_The young boy lay on the ground, bleeding from a gash on his head. His eyes were nearly closed. Dull sounds came from the surrounding area, but nothing could be seen._

_Chrom was still clutching his shoulder, but now his head ached and_ ached _. But concern filled his chest, and he stumbled over to the boy, falling to his knees beside him. The boy was muttering something:_

_“Emm said…” He breathed shallowly. “Naga will…save…”_

_Footsteps sounded nearby, and Chrom looked up. A woman entered his vision as if walking into a dim moonbeam. Her hair was short and silvery, and her eyes were dark. She wore the purple and gold coat that he recognized as Robin’s._

_She knelt beside the boy, inspecting him. She spoke softly, as if afraid of being overheard, or afraid of her own words. “If there are gods, they don’t save us. That’s a myth. We have to save ourselves.”_

Chrom woke up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just fyi, this Basilio is just an allusion to Regna Ferox characters. he's definitely not the actual Basilio.

**Author's Note:**

> *coughs* I may have...been inspired by a certain anime.... *coughs*codegeass*coughs*


End file.
